


Martin Thinks In Bed

by AxeMeAboutAxinomancy



Series: Bangkok [3]
Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Flashbacks, M/M, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2013-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-07 16:00:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/750351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AxeMeAboutAxinomancy/pseuds/AxeMeAboutAxinomancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin can't sleep, and lies awake thinking about Douglas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Martin Thinks In Bed

Martin feels as though maybe he shouldn't watch Douglas sleep.

He can't help himself, though. It is just so incredibly interesting to see Douglas disordered, unguarded. Like this. Beside him.

It's funny but he looks somehow older and younger at the same time, when he's asleep. Older, because with his eyes closed they can't command your attention as they usually do when you look at him. So you really have time to see his face and the clear signs of age there. Younger, because of his eyebrows and his mouth. He's not doing anything with them for effect so they're completely innocent for a change.

And there's his hair all mussed (Martin's fault).

Fact: Douglas steals most of the covers. Well, it is his bed. But he gives back more than enough body heat in return, and there's his arm draped over Martin as well. It's heavy, and Martin isn't sure he can sleep like this, but it's too good to give up, it feels too good. Douglas feels too good.

Also fact: Martin isn't used to sleeping with someone else. That first night, at the hotel in Bangkok, he'd had quite a bit of wine to bolster his courage and it had also bolstered his sleep when he eventually passed out.

It had surprised him so much when Douglas was still there when Martin woke up. But he was. And when, in the cold light of the morning Martin started to fracture in embarrassment and anxiety, Douglas had cheerfully bullied him into the shower. "Do hurry up, Captain. We'll want to _take advantage of_ that hotel breakfast we heard so much about from Arthur, and I could certainly see my way clear to _having my way with_ a coffee. Couldn't you?"

And it went on like that, from there. Douglas was the same as ever, in one sense, but his teasing, which stopped being really mean years ago, now became both nicer and naughtier. He would lean on a mostly-innocent phrase with a purr of innuendo that could have made the Devil blush.

And the way he says _sir_ since then, it isn't... it isn't decent.

But he _doesn't_ try to embarrass Martin, not in front of anyone else, anyway. The embarrassment he makes Martin feel when they are alone, well, that's the good kind of embarrassment. He hadn't known there was a good kind.

There is, though.

Douglas has a way of looking at him that is terrifyingly wonderful. Dark warm magician's eyes that make wicked, detailed promises. Douglas does keep promises when he makes them. Scout's honour.

So far, for the first moment when this look lands on him Martin tends to feel worried and confused, as though he has blundered in front of a spotlight that is surely intended for somebody else. But in the next moment, when Douglas smiles a little smile at him, definitely at _him,_ it's as though Martin glances down and sees that he's wearing a rather nice tuxedo and holding a microphone and when he looks up there's an autocue that says IT'S ALL RIGHT, JUST PLAY ALONG.

And, for some reason, taped to the bottom of this is a drawing of a rabbit made by Arthur.

Wait - what?

Oh! he was dozing off. But something's woken him up again.

Douglas of course. Douglas has turned towards him in his sleep and both arms are around Martin now. Oh he can't, he really _can't_ sleep like this. Ow, his arm. Martin manages to restore the blood flow to it and rests his head down on Douglas' arm and then - suddenly - relaxes, surprised to find himself comfortable. Douglas positively radiates heat, but as Martin now only has blankets around his feet it evens out, it really does.

Smells good. Douglas.

Martin blushes to remember that he told Douglas so, all tipsy that night at dinner. He tried to cover it, he's pretty sure, they were talking about drinking, but he did let himself flirt a little with Douglas that night, more than a little, and Douglas was flirting a little back, more than a little, and Martin did, he really _did_ summon up the courage to ask Douglas to come to his room.

And Douglas showed up!

Martin had just had time to relieve a nervous bladder, wash his hands, and then, after a hesitation, to swiftly brush his teeth, feeling foolish and presumptuous about it because of course Douglas wasn't going to -

Knock, knock.

\- show up. And Douglas kissed him. And -

And Martin almost _ruined everything!_ by seizing up in panic because - because right up to the instant it was happening, it just hadn't seemed entirely _possible_. Surely: Douglas would draw back at the last moment, and make a joke, though that would be horrible, or something or somebody probably Arthur would interrupt them or, or, maybe a _fire_ , a fire in the hotel, and the sprinklers would have come on over them with a literal cold shower and nobody would ever mention it again. Surely.

But there was no joke about the look on Douglas' face. Dull-eyed and defeated like a general who just lost a war.

Martin never wants to see that look ever again. Not on anyone's face, but least of all on Douglas'. It gave Martin an awful feeling of unwanted power, like the sorcerer's apprentice when he sees what he's done. _Oh no. I didn't mean that._

He tightens his arm round Douglas' back a little and closes his eyes.

But at least Martin unfroze before it was too late and -

And Douglas stayed.

He has to keep reminding himself that these things really did happen. Even though he's - lying in Douglas' arms, in Douglas' bed. Even though it has to have happened. And more has happened since.

Hmmm. He smiles. And blushes. Yes. That.

Douglas is awfully good at sex, though it's true that Martin has little basis for comparison. He didn't even have sex with everyone on his metaphorical bobsleigh. And his one time with a man hadn't gone well at all. Not horribly, but not - well. Not what you could call _encouragingly_. It had all been rather embarrassing really, as the other bloke, also inexperienced, seemed inclined to treat Martin as though he were a woman, which wasn't what Martin wanted at all.

Douglas doesn't do that.

Douglas makes free with his hands, and with his teeth, and certainly with his _tongue_ , and doesn't tend to ask permission. Doesn't hold back, doesn't treat Martin as delicate just because he is smaller. Or younger. Or howlingly obviously inexperienced.

Last night. Oh that _voice_ talking dirty in bed. There's a point past which Douglas doesn't make jokes anymore. Not even sexy jokes.

There's a point past which he's something of an incubus, honestly.

What they did last night, Martin had never done before. And Douglas actually did look for permission first, but by then Martin had already been half prepared by clever fingers and was trembling with need and of course it was yes, anyway, he wanted everything, yes.

Thinking about how good it was, he wants it again right now. He shifts his position as he starts getting hard again.

Kneeling at the edge of the bed. Douglas' hand on the back of his neck.

Babbling things that scorch his ears to think of having said them. Some of the filthier vocabulary supplied by demonic Douglas, but not all. _Don't you dare stop fucking me_ was definitely Martin's.

Douglas' laugh had been a growl of delight.

  
  
  


"Oh, hello. A fidgety, wriggly sort of a person. In my bed. Can't sleep?"

"Sorry," reflexively.

Douglas' hand strokes up and down his back. "I'll need to work harder to wear you out. If I want to sleep at night."

Douglas? Work?

Then it occurs to Martin: what Douglas is so casually implying. It isn't night now. It's practically dawn. Douglas means, other nights. In the future.

Then the phrase 'wear you out' fully develops in his imagination and he laughs, pressing his burning cheek against Douglas' shoulder.

"You did. Wear me out. Temporarily."

**Author's Note:**

> Prosaic titles, aren't they! There will probably be more in this series, but first I must return my attention to Sherlock. Stay tuned.


End file.
